


we are nowhere and it's now

by elmsinthunder



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Dissociation, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10040384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmsinthunder/pseuds/elmsinthunder
Summary: This is the kind of thing that's best kept behind closed doors.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is really short and pointless but i saw that scene when dennis stares into a camera for two hours and i understood too well

It’s past 3am, the bar is closed, and Dennis is alone in the back office. He’s sitting behind the computer, so that if Mac or Charlie were to suddenly walk in he could make himself look busy, but the screen is completely blank. He’s staring at a reflection in the smooth black surface, but there’s no sense of connection, not even a flicker of recognition of the face staring back at him. He feels nothing. It’s been hours now and he knows, deep down, that he’ll snap out of this- he always does- but right now it feels like he’ll never be real again. He’s so fucking empty.  


He starts opening desk drawers, knowing that one of his friends was sure to have stashed a flask here, and freezes when he spots a book of matches under a pile of junk. Suddenly, a violent urge to set himself on fire rushes into his mind and he recoils at the thought, trying to push it away. It’s fucking insane, but then again, what a way to go. No one would doubt that he was a golden god after that. He watches in horror as a hand that must be his reaches into the drawer and pulls out the matches in slow motion. There’s nothing he can do. If Mac were here he could stop him, help him look around and count the ceiling tiles or run his hand along the edges of the desk, anything to ground him, but Mac’s gone and he’s trapped.  


He snaps off a match but it splinters at the bottom and now it’s imperfect and ugly and he drops it on the desk. He breaks off another and lights it. The scraping sound reaches his ears too late, it seems, and now the smell of the burning hair on his arm, that also comes too late. He doesn’t even feel it when the flame touches his skin, not at first. Then, suddenly, the pain, white-hot and sharp enough to send his mind crashing back into reality. He drops the match and grabs the edge of the desk, unable to concentrate on anything but the tension in his body and the stinging from the shiny, raised blisters already forming on his arm. He remembers that he is alive. He remembers that he is alone. The feelings come back.


End file.
